The Punctuation of Doors
by stereolightning
Summary: Sirius thinks his whole life might just be about showing up at James' doorstep, over and over. (A love story, but not in a romantic way.)


Sirius almost falls face-first onto the wet pavement, which is a black sea, dangerous and glittering with rainbow eddies of spilled motor oil. He catches himself on the rain-slick railing. He is long past yelling at his mother to fuck off. The only sounds he makes are sodden footfalls, and the squeaks and zips of the straps as he tightens his hastily packed rucksack against his chest. A cab's headlight eyes glow in the hazy street, watching him like a huge metal Cheshire cat, grinning with a dented muffler that drips rain from its silver fangs.

He reaches the sidewalk and dashes around a corner, and then another.

He turns on the spot, and his hair catches the thin London drizzle, and water snakes under the collar of his shirt and oozes down the crevice between his shoulder blades. The last thing he sees is the electric red sign of an all-night pornographic movie theatre – _XXX_ – burning dully behind a window made milky with condensation as blistering July afternoon slides into drippy July evening.

He turns and turns and his socks are soaking inside his boots and Sirius thinks inexplicably of Regulus catching the Snitch in his first match against Hufflepuff, and then it's as if all the darkness and disorientation in his heart has burst, has metastasised, because he must be turning inside out, his guts are jelly, his limbs jerk and flop like a puppet's, and _this_ is what Apparition feels like, and he has never done it before, and he is sixteen and he might have just ripped himself apart, torn a seam down the fabric of space-time and his own flesh, and it is scary as hell.

He lands in the Potters' garden, stumbles into a patch of phallic green courgettes, and picks himself up again. It is not raining here. He's hundreds of miles away. He's done it. He's run away.

He's still seething at his parents, at his father in particular, but the thrill of hurtling through space by sheer force of will and coming out intact is oddly steadying. It's like the first time he became Padfoot – the shock and joy of accomplishing something so absurdly, powerfully, illegally magical that it could maim you forever. His nerves twinkle with satisfaction. He laughs. He always laughs when he's completely overcome. He laughs like a barking dog.

When he's finished laughing, and has checked to make sure all of his fingers made it to Godric's Hollow (they have), he sidesteps the summer vegetables and bounds up to the front door. He taps out a tattoo that he and James have developed over years of talking-without-talking, of communicating while in animal form, of sleeping in adjacent beds, and it's a wax seal stamped on the whole business: he has run away.

James answers the door so fast it's almost as if he was expecting this. The door is unlocked. His black hair is particularly untidy, and Sirius suspects he was just now having a wank.

"Hi," Sirius says, a chuckle singing through the single syllable as he blurts it out. Why can he never stop laughing at dramatic moments?

"What's happened?" James asks.

"Left home, haven't I," says Sirius.

"How the hell did you get here?"

"Fucking Apparated!" says Sirius, beaming through his anguish, mopping his forehead with the sleeve of his shirt.

"Christ," says James, eyes round behind his glasses. "Get inside. Will they know where you've gone?"

"Expect they will. Expect they don't give a rat's arse."

Sirius crosses the threshold into the sanctuary of the Potters' sitting room. He adores it – the smell of new books, the ten thousand houseplants, the ceremonial masks that James' parents picked up in places like Borneo and Togo when they were younger and travelled all the time. He dumps his wet rucksack by the door and casts a drying charm at it.

"Christ, Padfoot, will you stop firing off spells? You'll get a letter any second."

"Yeah, probably will. And maybe a hearing too, but it'll mean fuck all. No one gives a damn about the Statute of Secrecy right now, or the bludgering Decree for Underage Magic. Not now. Not with all that's happening."

Sirius crosses his arms. James puts his long Chaser hands on Sirius' shoulders, looks hard into his face, and then they're both laughing like idiots.

"What's it like?" asks James.

"Horrible! Fantastic! Everything spins and bends around you. Like being sucked through a black hole."

"_Merlin,_" says James, and then he pulls Sirius into a breath-evacuating, tendon-snapping hug. They are brothers, by choice if not by blood, and choices certainly mean more than blood to both of them. They are exactly the same height, and they fit together like two halves of a mould. Then, quietly, James says, "I'm sorry."

"Forget them. I'm finished with them. I'm never going back."

They break apart.

"Why are you so wet?"

"S'raining in London."

James laughs again. "You're a nutter, you know that? Merlin. Wish I'd known you were coming. Would've asked you to bring me the new Zonko's catalogue."

"Next time I run away from home, I'll try to plan better for your needs. Were you having a wank?"

"So what if I was?"

"You _were_. You absolutely were. I bet you were thinking about _her, _you besotted idiot."

"Shut up, it's none of your business," says James, snickering and aiming a half-hearted kick at Sirius.

James has no poker face at all. What little mystery he may have for others is totally transparent to Sirius. Those guileless hazel eyes – a moving map of his heart. Not like Moony's, which are soft and full of secrets, except when they are huge and yellow and wild, with a long pupil pointed at both ends, like a goat's. Or Evans', which are laser-green and pin you to the wall as if you're a sprawling, wriggling insect.

"I'm starving. You want something?" asks James.

"Yeah. Where're your Mum and Dad?"

"Barcelona. They have this thing about the Gaudi cathedral. They go every year."

A haughty-looking grey owl glides down the chimney and drops a letter on the kitchen table. Sirius snatches it up, rips it open, and reads it. A summons to a hearing, etcetera etcetera. Sounds perfunctory. If it comes down to it, he'll owl Andromeda and see if she still has any friends in the Wizengamot.

James throws together an oily fry-up. They talk all night. Sirius never goes home again. He's brought three t-shirts and one change of pants and his wand, and that's all he owns in the world.

...

It's Saturday morning, seventh year, and there's an unimportant Quidditch game – Ravenclaw against Slytherin. Last night was full moon. Remus sleeps it off in his four-poster, and Peter's in the hospital wing with a made-up excuse and a foot he tore open on a fence in Hogsmeade at three a.m., and Sirius is in the bed next to James', pretending to sleep. Light refracts through pink winter clouds and bends through the window.

The door opens noiselessly, and the crimson hangings around James' bed wave and shudder. Soft, squelching, popping noises reach Sirius' ears.

He lent her the cloak, Sirius realises. She's not bad at stealth. Hardly a quiet kisser, though.

In truth, he likes Lily. He pretends to be disgusted when James is stuffing his tongue down her throat, but privately, he's happy for them. And envious, because James comes from nice people and Lily is a nice girl and together they are a nice couple and they will have a nice life, whereas Sirius comes from horrible people and likes cruel girls and the only person he has ever loved with any constancy is James, and he thinks his whole life might just be him, Sirius, showing up at James' doorstep, over and over, like a stray dog.

Partly to keep from thinking too hard about what's happening three feet away (he has a dirty imagination, but it feels unchivalrous use it now), Sirius reflects on the years James spent chasing her. Chasing her like he chases Quaffles, with raw nerve and an economy of words, before he figured out how to slow down and talk to her like a friend, like a gentleman. This was probably inevitable. James has been smitten with her since second year. He never really chased anybody else.

There's the rustle of bedclothes, the hush of fabric sliding over skin. Suppressed giggles. Then there is a pause in which the room is so silent that Sirius can hear the commentary on the match from the distant pitch. Slytherin is up by twenty points. The potency of the moment is palpable, as if the air is custard.

"All right," she says, in a low voice with a prefect-ish edge that belies her nervousness.

The curtains flutter again, and there are footsteps. They must both be under the Cloak, but it's definitely James who opens the door, because nobody else opens the door like that – like he owns the door, and everything beyond it, and nothing could possibly be lurking on the other side. And off they go, the pair of them, in search of an empty room.

...

They are fighting on the losing side of a war that curls its fingers under the eaves of the Muggle world and tries to rip the roof right off. Sometimes Sirius thinks the Muggles must have noticed, if only because of the increasing number of deaths, both accidental and intentional, that lack reasonable explanation.

But Sirius has James, and now he has Lily, too, and somehow it often ends up just the three of them. They visit the country house of Sirius' Uncle Alphard, and Lily says it looks like something from a Jane Austen novel, all the wide green lawns and manicured trees. Alphard is a bona fide eccentric, and he owns a gold Jaguar, and Lily and Sirius attempt to teach James how to drive. (Ostensibly, it's so that James can disguise himself for an Order mission, but it may actually be penance for James making fun of Lily's brother-in-law and the latter's fancy new car.) The estate does have a sort of Regency-period look, Sirius muses, until James smashes the Jag into a tree. None of them are seriously injured and Lily can't stop cackling. James is no Mr. Darcy.

...

Lily and James have been housebound for months. They show signs of cabin fever. But they are also happy, in the way Sirius always suspected they would be happy, because they are nice people, funny people, and they love each other so much their goddamn Patronuses match.

They perch at the edge of their unmade bed, wearing mismatched pyjamas, looking into Harry's bassinet and telling him Very Important Things. Padfoot watches them from an armchair, tail curled over his paws, exhausted from chasing a Death Eater up and down the country for the last three days. He aches all over from half-healed hexes and fatigue. Godric's Hollow is his sanctuary again. He's moonlighting as the family dog.

"And then this tiny little red-headed girl sat next to me by the window," says James as Harry blinks and rubs his nose with one miniature fist, "and then her creepy, greasy-haired friend said she'd better be in Slytherin. And then, the boy across from me said he didn't want to be in Slytherin, even though his whole family had been. And that, Harry, was when I knew I had met the love of my life."

"You did not. You made fun of me," she says.

"Not talking about you. I meant Padfoot," says James.

"Oh, piss off," she says, pushing James onto his back, into the mattress, her palms pressing against his chest, her knees digging into his thighs. "You're the worst husband on earth."

James laughs, open-mouthed, shameless, and she presses a lumpy pillow over his face, smothering him in floral-printed cotton.

"Toe-rag. Arse. Idiot," she says.

He yells something into the pillow, incoherent. Ever the willing actor in any comedy, he thrashes wildly, and then goes still, limbs and elbows thudding against the mattress like dropped drumsticks.

"Are you dead, then?" she asks.

He hums something like a yes.

"Are you a ghost?"

A muffled dissent.

She removes the pillow. "Not a ghost?"

"Nah, zombie," says James. He crosses his eyes, moans like the undead, and nips the inside of her wrist with his teeth. "Now you're a zombie, too."

"Damn. Sorry, Harry," she says, gamely extending her arms and and groaning.

She flops onto her back and draws her wand. Trailing it through the air, she produces a rainbow of sparks that fall onto all four of their faces, melting upon contact. Padfoot licks one from the end of his nose. It tastes like strawberries. This is tame magic. Magic suitable for small children.

"Macabre," she says, sitting up again.

James picks Harry up and cracks dark jokes about eating brains. While his back is turned, Lily looks truly sombre for a moment. Padfoot leaps down from his armchair and puts his head in her lap, and she scratches him behind the ears for a long time.

"Thanks for coming, Padfoot," she says. She peers into his face with her piercing green eyes, which Sirius has decided are not scary, but beautiful. "By the way, James wants Harry to have your old bedroom. That okay with you?"

He licks her face and she laughs.

...

Sirius goes to the Prewett brothers' funeral alone. It's the first time he's done anything social without James in nearly ten years. He's unsure what to do with his mouth, or his hands, or his hair. He feels like half a person without James. And not the better half.

The Prewetts' sister has six sons. She weeps a waterfall. Sirius does not know what to say to her, but thinks James probably would. And Moony definitely would. But Moony is the spy. Isn't he?

Well, _isn't _he?

Remus has proven before that he's good at lying. He kept his lycanthropy a secret from hundreds of students for seven years. Nonetheless, the idea that any of them would betray one another is utter madness – a book written backwards and in gibberish.

All Sirius knows for sure anymore is that he loves James and Harry and Lily so much that if he thinks about it too hard, he might set entire rooms ablaze, send bridges toppling into rivers, and shatter every living soul around him as easily as if they were made of sugar glass.

"I'm sorry," he says, to no one in particular, as the two coffins are lowered into the ground.

...

Sirius pushes open the door. It's unlocked. There's no point in locking it, with a Fidelius charm in place, but for the first time ever, Sirius is irritated that James' door is always open. They should have a security question, at least. Preferably one that involves any of the million raunchy jokes they made up at school.

Lily was not exaggerating in her last letter; they have packed away all the ornaments so that Harry doesn't smash into them on his toy broomstick. The masks and the houseplants are gone, too. Sirius' footsteps echo on the bare walls.

James appears at the bottom of the stairs and puts a finger to his lips. Harry is asleep in a cotton sling across his chest. Lily has passed out on the sofa. _Draco dormiens nunquam titillandus. _

"_Muffliato_," they say, in perfect unison, their spells crossing mid-air with a sizzle, and they both grin. They are still in sync, even after weeks apart. Even when their only communication is through Lily's letters. Neither of them has ever been any good at written correspondence.

Has it been only five years since Sirius first turned up at James' door? It feels like centuries have passed. Or seconds.

They talk for hours, about Harry, about the romantic goings-on of other Order members, about long-ago midnight adventures on the Hogwarts grounds. Lily wakes up and takes Harry, who blinks at Sirius with large green eyes. The rest of Harry is James in miniature, right down to the unusual cowlick on the back of his head that makes his hair stick up.

The little family looks so peaceful. If Sirius could stay here forever as their pet-cum-godfather, he would. But the Order has been decimated, and hiding is not an option for those whom fate has not named in prophecies. Those who can fight, must.

They make dinner together. Months of captivity have vastly improved James' cooking spells. Lily feeds Harry a few bites of treacle tart, which he smears across his tiny face with commendable efficiency. He's sticky and his cheeks are orange, and the adults are laughing, and Harry grins and probably doesn't know why it's all so funny.

Lily takes Harry upstairs to change him into clean clothes.

Sirius naps on the sofa, snatching peace where he can get it. This is home, really, this house. This place has long been more like home to him than anywhere else. Or, if not like home, like church, because here he feels forgiven, especially by Lily – she knows he was a bullying little berk at school and she likes him anyway.

At sunset, Sirius stands in the doorframe, and James leans against the wall, his face dappled with orange light. James clearly itches to go outside. He sniffs the fresh air like it's a drug. He hasn't got the cloak anymore. He lent it to Dumbledore. But even if James did have it, it's unthinkable for him to go anywhere with Sirius, because Sirius is something like bait right now, what with everyone expecting him to be the Secret-Keeper. So this is as far as they can go together: the doorway.

"Love you," says Sirius.

James blinks and shakes his head, like Prongs shaking rain from his antlers. He's not averse to expressions of affection – he never has been – but Sirius thinks he may have just scared his friend. He hadn't meant to. Probably James is upset that Sirius has put himself in danger on his behalf, and that there is nothing James can do in return. But James is not the one in debt. Sirius is. He always has been. Or at least, he has been since he showed up here five years ago with no gold and no plan and nothing to offer but his own dubious charm.

James pulls Sirius by the shoulders and says, "Just be careful, yeah?"

Sirius nods and lifts his hands to squeeze James' wrists. "I will."

Then he descends the stairs and walks to the boundary of the yard, the Apparition point.

Fallen leaves snick and crunch under Sirius' feet. The late October air is crisp. The candle eyes of neighbours' jack-o-lanterns flicker in the growing dark.

Sirius turns and turns and the black swell of imminent Apparition floods his heart, twists his stomach.

James stands in the doorway, tall and messy-haired, and the cat twines its sinuous grey body around his ankles. _Love you_, he mouths, soundlessly, and Sirius hates that those huge hazel eyes are less than steady as they watch him go.

...

* * *

**A/N** Thank you to starfishstar, for a helpful beta-read.

Reviews are appreciated. :)


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